


When your Soul Embarks

by Ireth_Isilra



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, M/M, mentions of other character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireth_Isilra/pseuds/Ireth_Isilra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan is going to be alone for all eternity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When your Soul Embarks

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this work to [hawk-and-handsaw](http://hawk-and-handsaw.tumblr.com/), who gave me the idea. This is not exactly what she wanted, but here it is anyways... Thank you for cool the prompt, darling, and for liking this pairing as much as I do.  
> Also, thanks to my [Combeferre](http://another-sand-snake.tumblr.com/), for being the greatest beta and perfect in general.

Jehan knew, the very day he died, that if there was a paradise, a safe haven where souls went after their transitory passage for this Earth, he wouldn't join his friends there. He died alone. And alone he would stay for the rest of eternity.

Who was he to fight against the dark, cold fate death made of him? Eternity is way too long to spending it crying; instead he moved slowly through the world and selfishly thanked to any divinity out there that he didn't had to see his friends die in front of his eyes, unable to do anything for them. That probably would have killed more than just his body.

In fact, it was pretty simple, his death. No tunnels, no angels nor demons, no Charon taking his souls into the Hades. He just felt pain on his back, everything went to black and when he woke up again, he wasn't handcuffed nor blindfolded, and all that remained from their revolution was bloodstains in the pavement that soon were washed away by rain.

\---

He was alone. All alone in a world where no one would ever hear his flute or his verses ever again. And yet, he never stopped writing, even if it was only in his head. He decided to haunt all the streets of Paris, until he knew them as the palm of his hand. He dedicated himself to watch groups of friends laughing and enjoying together, as if he could live through them everything he didn't have the chance of living when he had his time. La Rue de Chanvrerie became his home as days became weeks, and weeks became years. He never looked for those he knew when he lived, because he didn't have enough courage to find out what became of them. Had Marius married his beautiful Cosette? Had Musichetta got over Joly and Bossuet, and lived a happy life with children and a good husband? He did not know. Some things are better left unknown.

He saw another revolution rise, and win where they had failed. He had the certainty that somewhere, somehow Enjolras and Combeferre and everyone else were laughing. Oh, how he wished he could laugh with them!

He wished he could hear their voices, see their faces, even if it was just one more time. The worst thing about time wasn't the loneliness or the yearning for contact, what scared him the most about it was, in fact, how it seemed to fade his memories like the sea dissolves a stone into sand with every wave. He could no longer remember the exact colour of their leader's hair, the fire in Bahorel eyes' after a good fight, the sound of Courfeyrac voice or what kind of insults used to throw Feuilly in perfect Polish when he was angry... He was losing them, and in the process, he feared, he was losing himself. When he would finally forget them, he would become complete, utter nothingness. So he held on, as tightly as he could, he held to his most intimate and happy memories; like the time Grantaire let him into his apartment only for Jehan to find it full of the most beautiful paintings he'd ever seen --alive AND dead--, or the day he convinced Joly to join him on a picnic, despite of being the most unhygienic thing his friend had ever done.

But above those, Jehan held to his memories of Combeferre. Because he was always the guide, right? And if he loses his guide, then how could he ever have the hope of keep going? If he loses the one he loved the most-- No. Combeferre was the pillar of his existence, and he had been for at least a year before his death. He has to remember.

The first time they held hands, running through the snow, hurrying to the Musain with their hearts racing and similes on their faces, ready to hear yet another magnificent speech form the lips of their leader; and the last time, with Jehan's own body pressed against Combeferre after Enjolras had killed a criminal, both watching in shock and admiration to the righteous man in front of them. Their first kiss, which had been just a shy touch of lips against lips an autumn evening when both had more drinks than they had to and the candle lights were just enough for they could see that gesture was in fact, appreciated by the other; and their last, lying on Combeferre's bed the morning before General Lamarque's funeral, their bare bodies wrapped only around each other, both bathed by the reds and golden of their last sunrise together.

The first words they exchanged, the times they made love, when they said _"I love you"_. All the memories, he keeps them close to his heart. All the things he has to remember... until he forgets.

\---

It's nearly two centuries after his death when he realises he can't remember who he is. He knows he's alone, he will always be. He knows he has lost someone important, but he can’t remember who. He has no directions; the city has changed _so_ much. He can feel he'll soon be nothing. And yet, something in him refuses to vanish.

He stays in La Rue de Chanvrerie, like he's waiting for someone he doesn't know, or worse, someone he forgot. He cries in the night, whispering words that don't mean anything to him but have a cadence and a rhythm that seem familiar, and it soothes him. Other people, living people say the street is haunted, and don't come by past twilight. They say they can hear poetry in the wind, and that pleases him, even though he doesn't know what poetry means. He knows his words are always apologies to names and people he can't remember. The pain of losing them is almost unbearable. He's so, so sorry he wishes he could just disappear, for that way the ache would go away. 

And still, something in him refuses nothingness.

\---

He has no idea on how much time has passed, he doesn't even have a concept of what time is when he's done, but he knows it. That is the last day of his existence. He closes his eyes, waiting.

"Vive la France, vive l'avenir" he whispers, even if he doesn't know what it means. He feels himself fading, he feels the quietness of the void, he lets himself go, and...

"No!" a desperate shout breaks the silence he had immersed himself for as long as he can remember. A taller man comes running right next to him, noticing him as no one has done before, as if he's this man whole life "I arrived late the last time, but not again; never again".

He doesn't understand, but the man wearing spectacles is crying and sadness dwells in him too. "I already lost you once, please, don't go" the man begs, and he can't understand but he wants to stay a little longer, especially when he feels trapped by this man’s arms, touched for a first time, loved. "Please, Jehan" he repeats, and everything falls into place once again.

"'Ferre?" he asks, and then he's hugging back, also crying because he was going to be alone forever and this should be impossible, but here he is, and Jehan had missed him so much.

"It's time to go home, mon amour" Combeferre says, but Jehan already feels home there, in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the song is from Death Cab for Cutie song "I'll follow you into the Dark".  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!  
> If it is not too much to ask, please leave a message to tell me what you think!


End file.
